


Into the Woods

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fawnlock, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t talk about the forest. As young lads, they had heard all the tales of things that lurked in the woods. His granddad swore by them: that magic lurked deep in the trees, that no one should go walking amongst them at dusk, that anything taken from the forest must be replaced, that if you wandered too deep and for too long you’d be changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Woods

It’s the sound of the sheep screaming that wakes him. At first, he is caught between waking and dreaming. He is elsewhere. Not the family farm, but a remote village, long past. The scream is that of a child and his throat closes, tight and unbearable. His chest hurts with the effort to keep breathing and the blankets that he had piled high in effort to stave off the cold weigh him down. He struggles and nearly tumbles from the bed, before he manages to right himself. The cold shock of the hardwood floor against his sock-covered feet finally wakes him. It burns, even through the layer of wool, but it is not the burn of a too bright sun, not the burn of fever. He welcomes it.

The sheep shriek again, terrified and hurt. Shoving his feet into his boots, he stumbles towards the front door. He pauses only for a moment to scoop up the hunting rifle propped against the door frame and to shove his knife into the sheath on his belt. The screen door slams behind him. He can now hear the dogs barking, like angry shouts filling the night. Gladstone’s deep, thundering bark overrides them all. The old wolfhound has caught the scent of something.

He runs through the snow towards the barn, steps hampered by the slick slush. Though it had turned warm briefly during the day, the night has turned the falling rain into ice. The cold is sharp against his face, clawing and biting at each bit of exposed skin. Strange how it mingles with the memory of rocks and dirt being thrown in his face. Not the same, yet the two blur. His blood pounds in his throat. It thuds in his ears like the distant sound of helicopter blades.

“John!” Stamford’s voice cuts through the darkness. He doesn’t pause to reply, just waves towards the barn, trusting the man to know what to do. If something has got in there with the sheep, that means the door is open. The wind had been howling half the night, rattling the windows and shaking the doors. A good gust could have blown the doors wide open, especially if Anderson was the last to lock up-- half the time he forgot to check the latch before heading to bed. If a fox or wolf got in the barn and caused the animals to scatter, John, Stamford, and the other farm hands will be out for the rest of the night chasing down frightened sheep.

Gladstone shoots past him, a dark blur of wiry grey fur. He curses. The dog might come in handy gathering the sheep later, but for now he’s just going to make matters worse and John doesn’t have time to patch up a dog if there is a wolf in the barn. Used to be wolves didn’t come near the farm, but more and more they dart in and out, taking their chances to make a grab at a quick and easy meal. Half the time they found the wolves still pulling the sheep along, refusing the back down even from the sights and sounds of people. In the nearly twenty years he helped work the farm before joining the army, he’d never seen anything like it.  

The door to the barn is wide open. The old wood creaks in the wind, swinging back and forth. The light’s gone out, leaving nothing but the weak illumination from the house porch light to lead his way. Inside he can hear Gladstone growling.

The sheep have gone silent.

He wipes the snow that has gathered on his eyelashes and unslings his rifle. His shoulder grinds unpleasantly as he brings the gun to bear, guiding it to rest the butt against his shoulder. He’s not as good a shot as he’d once been, not with the injury, but he doesn’t necessarily need to hit anything. A wide shot can scare off an animal and he doesn’t want to risk hurting the herd anyway. His fingers shake as he flicks the torch on that rests just above the scope. Taking a deep, slow breath, he forces himself forward.

The darkness inside the barn yawns before him. Though he knows the shape of it, the nooks and crannies of it, just as well as his own bedroom, he cannot stifle the strange way his skin prickles or the way his stomach tightens. The light from his torch does little to dispel the feeling. Gladstone is nothing more than an outline of dark fur and darker growl, hunched low just inside the doorway.

The smell of blood, hot fur, and decay reaches his nose before he sees it. His stomach roils. He turns his head for a moment, drawing in a deep pull of cold air. In the distance, he can hear the shout of Stamford rounding up the farm hands to help. When he turns back, the darkness has taken shape. His gaze skitters across fangs, claws, and eyes, unable to make sense of what is before him. Something of a lion and wolf mark its shape, but primal nightmares fight across its flesh, as if that which is contained within is too powerful for one shape to contain.

The beast lunges for him. Gladstone bolts forward just as John pulls the trigger. The shot echoes out across the farm, missing its mark and doing nothing to scare the creature away. The wolfhound is nothing more than a toy next to the beast's hulking size and just as easily batted away. Gladstone cries out and thuds against a nearby stall. He whimpers but doesn’t get up.

And then it is there. Lightning quick, it darts towards John. He raises the rifle to pull the trigger once more, but the weight of the beast crashes into him. He tumbles backwards, rifle gone from his hands, wind crushed out of his lungs. Slavering jaws snap at his face, but do not bite. As he watches, the wolf (and that is the only thing he can think to call it, but it is more than that, so much more-- it is terror made flesh, eager to rip and tear asunder) smiles, cold and delighted at what it has caught under its claws.

“Oh, Huntsman, it has been some time since I tasted human flesh.” Voice oil slick, it slithers into John’s ears, pushes its way into the primal corners of his mind that still remember what it was to be prey. It presses its enormous nose against John’s neck, breath hot and terrifying against his skin. “And you do smell quite delicious.” Its claws dig into John’s chest, not ripping, not yet, but each claw is a pin prick pushing slowly into his chest.

John fumbles for the knife on his belt, heedless of the teeth and claws perched so close. The beast growls, intent to play with him, and pushes down hard. Pain explodes across his chest. He doesn’t realize he has the knife free until he swipes with his hand, driven by nothing more than the need to survive. Blood coats his arms and the beast’s howl shakes his bones. He strikes again, the shock of the blade skating across bone travels down his arm. The beast rolls off of him, snapping and growling. He scrambles away, waving the knife between him and the creature. He is nothing more than a toy soldier, a tiny toothpick against the might of the thing. It crouches, ready to strike again, and in its eyes is John’s epitaph. He swallows the fear, lets it fill his belly, rather than overcome him. His hand steadies for the first time since returning from the war.

“John, down!” A shotgun blast rips through the night. The beast shudders, but does not fall. Another blast and it launches itself away, powerful legs carrying it back toward the forest.

Stamford kicks up the snow around him as he huffs his way to John. The shotgun falls next to him. “Christ, what was that thing? John? Oh God. We need to call a doctor. You’re bleeding.” Stamford fumbles with his gloves, ripping them off his hands and tossing them away in his haste. He plucks at John’s shirt, fingers hesitant as he explores the tears in the cloth.

“John, can you tell me where you are hurt? I’m not-- How much of this is your blood?”

“It spoke.”

“What?”

“That thing. It--,” he pauses, the words sticking on his tongue. He licks his lips trying to get them out.

“You’re in shock. God, what are the roads like? Do you think the truck can get up here in this weather?”

“No, I’m fine. It didn’t-- It’s not that bad.” He shakes his head as the world came sharply back into focus. “Gladstone. Get him out of the barn. You may need the wheelbarrow. Get him inside and lock the doors.”

“What about the herd?”

“Bloody well hang the herd!”

Stamford’s head jerks back, eyes wide.

“Sorry. Sorry. Just get everyone inside. I don’t want anyone wandering around looking for the sheep while that thing is on the loose.” He stands and presses a hand to his chest. The skin burns and his ribs ache, but he has had worse. He stumbles over and picks up the rifle. It is miraculously still intact, though the lens on the torch is cracked.

“Where the hell are you going?”

A mean, angry line mars the stock of the gun. Had it not been in between John and the beast, he would be dead. He runs his fingers along it. “Someone needs to track the thing. Make sure it doesn’t come back this way.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Stamford struggles to his feet and claps a hand on John’s shoulder. “Listen, wait until sun up. We’ll get some of the lads from the town, do a proper search of this.”

“And by then who knows where it will be? I promise I won’t go far. I just want to make sure it doesn’t try to double back here.”

“It’d have to be out of its mind to do that. No animal would come back around this way after the showing we just gave it.”

“Yeah, well, no _animal_ would act like that at all.” He stares hard at Stamford and watches the colour leave his face. They don’t talk about the forest. As young lads, they had heard all the tales of things that lurked in the woods. His granddad swore by them: that magic lurked deep in the trees, that no one should go walking amongst them at dusk, that anything taken from the forest must be replaced, that if you wandered too deep and for too long you’d be changed. Stones for luck because a marked trail could change and disappear behind you. Everyone knew a cousin twice removed whose friend had gone missing one night. It all sounded of utter nonsense, tales told to children to scare them away from wandering too far from home. John had always prided himself on not believing in superstition, but not this night. Now each of the shadows dance and wink at him, each branch beckons, and the wind whispers in his ear.

Stamford’s mouth hangs open, a protest starting to form, but John stomps past him, into the barn. Gladstone whimpers, raising his head for a moment, before ducking back down to lick at his leg. In the light from his fractured torch, he can tell the leg is broken.

“Easy, boy. I’ve got ya.” John kneels down and runs his hands over his dog’s back and legs, checking for more injuries. The dog shivers, but leans into his touch.

The wheelbarrow thumps down next to him and Stamford eyes the dog with a practiced eye. “I can splint it, but we’ll want Molly up here in the morning to give it a proper look.” With that, he slips his arms under the dog and lifts him. Gladstone gives a brief growl and then falls silent as he is nestled in the confines on the cart. “If you are going, you best get going now.”

John nods. He snags a coverall off the nearby hook and shrugs it over his shoulders. The canvas is heavy, used to protect arms when they are working with barbed wire. It’s not body armour, but it’ll maybe slow the beast down a bit if it tries to get another bite of him. With one last look to make sure Stamford has things handled, he heads into the woods.

 

* * *

 

The trees quickly swallow him whole. He can no longer hear the ambient noise of the farm, had nearly lost his sense of direction within minutes of following the trail of blood the beast has left behind. He had played on the edge of the woods as a child, but had never ventured too far in; now he understands why so many of the people in the village and surrounding farms avoid this grove. The trees loom above him, each an ancient judge staring silently at him. A line of ice marches its way down his spine, trailing paranoia in its wake. Every snap of a branch is the snap of a giant maw closing on bone, every shadow a mass of dark fur. He shakes the feeling of eyes watching him and tramps through the snow, following the trail of blood that leads deeper into the woods. A notch every few trees is his bread crumb trail. If he gets lost out here, the marks will at least serve as a way for others to find him. Hopefully.

He swallows against the claustrophobia that threatens to overwhelm him. Small spaces had never bothered him before, but he cannot suppress the primal feeling of being very small and insignificant, surrounded by something far greater than he is.

The torch on his rifle flickers, the light dimming as if the darkness of the forest is leeching the little sliver of light. He smacks his hand against it. It flares to life briefly, before going completely out. Without even the moon as a guide, he is consumed by the abyss.

Silence reigns. He lets out a slow, uneven breath. It’s just trees. Just trees, and snow, and--

A tree branch snaps to his left, cascading a shower of snow on his shoulder. It is the only warning he gets before the heavy weight of something crashes into him. His chest screams in protest, taking the full brunt of yet another tackle. He thrashes, attempting to use the rifle as leverage to get the weight off of him, but the weight continues to press against him.

“Quiet. Quiet.” The mass of weight pushes down on him again. It’s not the voice of the beast, not that horrible greasy sound, but it doesn’t sound human either. (And what has his life become that he is now attributing what sounds like a human voice and what doesn’t? He bites back hysterical giggle.) It’s deep and rich, like freshly tilled earth warmed by the sun. Now that he is no longer struggling, he can feel fingers, not paws, holding him down. He doesn’t untense his shoulders, but the thing that has him now doesn’t seem intent on hurting him.

“Good.” Its face is close, cold nose pressed against his own. From this angle, John can make out little of his assailant: it looks like a mass of hair and one giant glowing green eye. This close, John’s whole face tingles. There is an absence of taste on his tongue, like he has just licked a battery; the nothingness fills his mouth, charged by the emptiness.

The creature slowly leans back, but keeps its hands firmly on John’s shoulders as if it doesn’t trust John to stay where he is. The tingly goes with it and as he watches, the glowing in the creature’s eyes slowly recedes, but does not fade entirely. The creature turns its head and studies the trees around them. In the glow of its eyes, John can make out more of its features. It is a man, or at least something fashioned to look like a facsimile of one. The nose is right in shape, though it is coal black around the nostrils. Its eyes, beyond the glow, are shaped in such a way that if John had been looking at a human, he would have called him unearthly regardless. The dark thatch of hair on its head is thick and curled, interrupted by a set of sharp looking antlers and two furry deer ears. The creature shifts and stands up, as if satisfied that whatever danger it has spotted has passed, and it is only then that John realizes that it is completely nude, save for a tuft of thick fur around its neck that tapers off as it trails down his chest and an odd collection of markings along its arms and legs. _Human_ legs. Strange that that is what startles him the most about the creature’s appearance. He had been sure he’d see deer legs or something equally as fantastic.

It--he notices John staring at his legs. “Stupid.”

John snaps his gaze back up to his face. “Pardon?”

“Stupid,” he drags the word out, popping the ‘p’ in order to prove a point. “You.”

“Me?" 

“Yes.”

John struggles to his feet and snatches up his rifle. “Look, I don’t know what you are playing at, but it is certainly not funny. There is something huge, bloody well massive, in this forest and I don’t particularly appreciate being tackled by, by, by--”, he gestures, “something that looked like it had stumbled out of the back of a wardrobe. I’m at the end of my rope. I’ve been damn near eaten and scared out of my mind for the past hour and I would like to get back to my bed, so if you please.”

His mouth pops open then shuts. Apparently even magical creatures can pout. “Rude.”

“Ta. Really. Now if you don’t mind, have you seen a giant wolf-lion-looking thing stumbling through here? Looks like it eats elephants for breakfast?”

“Yes,” he says, boredom dripping out of every pore.

John presses his lips together and counts until the red clears his vision. “And?”

He sighs and scrunches his nose in concentration. With a huff of frustration, he turns on his heel and heads into the trees. John scurries after him, tripping over an exposed root that he could not see in the darkness. “Wait-- hold on, will you just wait for two seconds?”

“I don’t remember. Are all humans this loud or just you?”

“Oh, so you can say more than one word at a time.”

“Yes.” He grins, preening a bit at his own joke. He lifts a low hanging branch out of the way and gestures for John to duck under it.

John can hear his granddad’s voice clearly in his ear: _Stay out of the woods, Johnny. If you see something, don’t talk to it. Don’t follow it. Don’t accept anything from it. If you go into the woods, the woods will go into you._ But his chest still aches and the terror still sits low in his belly. This being, whatever it is, doesn’t seem like it means any harm and if it can help him get back out of this place in one piece, then he is willing to put old superstition aside. He keeps one eye on the creature even as he skirts past it. Past the branch is what appears to be the creature’s home. Shielded above by a network of branches, the burrow is protected from the elements. A strange glow fills the space, though John cannot find the source of the light. The ground is dry under his feet and off in one corner is a pile of leaves and the remnants of an old blanket. Under the dirt, he can just make out a pattern of ducks and boats. Why did it have a baby’s blanket?

 _Fae folk_ , his granddad whispers. _They steal children. Leave changelings in their place._

The creature ducks in behind him and pads on silent feet into a corner of its home. It pokes through a pile of leaves and twigs and then hums in delight, its hand curls around something John cannot see. John tightens his hold on his rifle and widens his stance, but the creature doesn’t come near him again. Instead he sits down on his bed.

“You have a name, of course.”

John licks his lips. _Names are powerful, Johnny. Never give it away easily._ “Yes, of course.”

The creature rolls his eyes. “And it is?”

“Yours first.”

He grumbles low under his breath, just loud enough for John to make out something about ‘stupid’ and ‘believe anything.’ “I don’t have one anymore.”

“Meaning you used to have one.”

He rubs the blanket, fingers flitting over the fabric. “Sherlock. My mother called me Sherlock.”

There is something in the way he says the name that warns John away from pressing further. “John.”

Sherlock nods. “You shouldn’t have come into the forest.”

“Because of the thing that I am tracking?”

“No, because of its master.”

John freezes, mind stuttering over something that powerful having a master. “Do you know where it is right now?”

“Yes. But you need to leave the forest. It’s too dangerous for your kind.” He stands and shoves his hand out at John, slowly uncurling his fist.

John inches forward, staying just out of arm’s reach. In Sherlock’s palm is a small skull. The bone is worn in places from being handled too much, grooves marking the path of worried fingers. “That’s a skull.” 

“Do you always point out the obvious?”

“Why are you trying to give me a skull?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, steps forward, and slaps the skull into John’s hand. His hand burns for a moment, but then the burn backs off, settling into a strange warmth that spreads up his arm and settles on his chest. His fingers curl around the skull without his permission.

“What was that?”

“It will protect you, help you get out of the forest, but you have to keep a hold of it. Otherwise it will be able to find you, now that it has your scent.” He turns back to his pile and digs out a torch. Turning it this way and that for a moment, he finally locates the switch and turns it on, blinking at the harsh light that is shining directly in his eyes. He turns it off again and shoves it into John’s coat pocket. “In case you get lost again.” He glares at the strap of John’s rifle and tugs at his arm, trying to pull the gun out of his grip.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“No good. It won’t help you. Leave it here.”

“Not happening.”

Sherlock steps into his space, towering above him. His eyes flash for a moment, a cold deep bluish green found only at the bottom of a lake. “Stop being an idiot. That beast has your scent and even now it is knitting itself back together. The longer you linger in these woods, the more it lays claim to you. You have to be out of here before sun up.”

John swallows. “What happens at sun up?” 

“The woods take you.” 

John finally lets go of the rifle, and Sherlock slips the strap up onto John’s shoulder and then grabs hold of John’s hand. He pulls John out of the burrow, tugging him forward with the same single-minded purpose he exhibited before.

Once outside the protection of Sherlock’s home, the woods press in around them again. Within minutes, he is lost again, the only thing keeping him tethered is the feel of the skull biting into his palm and the tug of Sherlock’s hand. The calm that had settled on him briefly leaves John. His breath quickens as he tries to keep up with Sherlock’s longer strides. In between breaths, he whispers: “Is that what happened to you? Did the woods take you?”

Sherlock’s shoulders stiffen and his stride falters. “Yes.” 

The child’s blanket floats through John’s mind. Had he been in here since he was a child? How had he managed to survive? The questions die on his tongue as a howl echoes through the forest. Sherlock’s ears twitch, trying to pinpoint the sound.

“John, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You have a straight shot out of the woods.” He points ahead and it is only then that John realizes that he can actually see Sherlock. The sky is lightening around them. “You run, as fast as you can, and don’t look back. Keep running until you reach the tree line, do you understand?”

Another howl, this time to John’s left.

“No, wait. Hold on! I thought you said it couldn’t find me.”

“It can’t. Not as long as you have that skull.”

“Then how did it find us?” He rips his hand free from Sherlock’s and turns him around to face him. Sherlock meets John’s eyes briefly and then sets his mouth into a firm line. “It’s not tracking me right now, is it?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It must have caught my smell along your trail just before it vanished. But I promise it won’t find you if you start running now.” 

“And what happens to you? Sherlock, what the hell happens to you if I run?” 

“What does it matter?” Sherlock hisses. 

“Because you don’t just leave people behind!” John’s throat closes. In the roar filling his ears, he can hear gunfire, screams, and the shout of _Watson, get down. Move, move, move!_ He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. “You don’t.” With that, he drops the bird skull, grabs Sherlock’s hand once more, and runs. 

He charges forward, ignoring the branches that smack and claw at his face. Behind him, the howl rises once more, victorious as it catches his scent. It toys with them, herding them this way and that, snapping at their heels, only to drop back for awhile to circle them and jump out from a different direction. It taunts them, growls edged with laughter, as it tries to drive them apart and then back together. 

The sky grows lighter and John can hear nothing but a dull roar, which he first takes to be terror, but soon reveals itself to be the rush of pounding water. They break the tree line, the early morning sunlight blinding John for a moment. He barrels into the back of Sherlock, who has stopped suddenly. Sherlock grabs him and backs up a few steps. In front of them, the ground drops off suddenly and below is the source of the sound: a waterfall.

The beast, however, does not stop. In a flash of wild fur and sharp fangs, it clamps onto John’s arm. Red hot pain shrieks up John’s arm, overwhelming him as the beast continues forward. They both crash into Sherlock and tumble, end over end. And then the ground drops away and they are weightless. Just before they smack into the churning water below, he hears Sherlock scream in rage. 

After that, it is only scattered images. 

Fur. Water. Pain. Blood. 

Earth against his cheek. Someone coughing nearby. The world tips. 

Light peaking through leaves. Cold. Calm. 

And then nothing. 

 

* * *

 

“John? John, can you hear me? Mike, I think he is coming around.”

He slowly opens his eyes and finds himself staring up into Molly Hooper’s eyes. She gently skates her fingers across his forehead and smiles. “Fever’s broken. That’s good.”

He blinks. “‘s good?”

Mike laughs somewhere off to his right. “Gave us a bit of a scare there. Could have done without that.” 

He tries to turn his head, but everything feels too heavy. He focuses on the ceiling above him; the cracks are familiar to him, but it takes him far too long to realize that he is staring up at his bedroom ceiling and that he is tightly wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. He means only to blink away the tiredness clogging his eyes, but he finds it impossible to open them once he has them closed. “How?” 

The bed dips next to him and Mike pats his leg. “Found you just outside the property. Luck was on your side because Anderson happened to be out that way, trying to round up the sheep and keep an eye out for you.” 

Luck had little to do with it. “Sherlock?”

“Who, mate?”

But sleep pulls him under before he can elaborate.

 

* * *

 

 

Days pass in a haze. The winter wind batters the windows, the last bitter howl of a dying season. John, when he is well enough to stand, always keeps one eye on a window, hoping that he will catch a glimpse of Sherlock. But as the storms pass and the weather slowly warms, Sherlock remains elusive. He knows, deep down in his bones, that Sherlock is the reason he is alive and just a glimpse of him would at least assure him that Sherlock survived the fall fully intact. On the first day of spring, he finally decides to venture outside.

Molly laughs behind him, her hands gently smoothing out the bandage along the back of his arm. “Didn’t know you had a tattoo.” 

“Tattoo?” John strains his neck, trying to get a glance at what she is talking about. She traces a dark line along his back. It twists and turns and comes to a stop just above his hip. 

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to go for that sort of thing. Or at least go for something a little more macho than tree branches and flowers. I thought you military types went for flags and scantily clad women.” She winks at him and then leaves him to get dressed. 

He stands, knocking over the chair in his haste, and staggers over to the mirror. He twists, just barely able to make out the markings along his back in his reflection. It’s just as Molly said: a tree branch spans the length of his back and even as he stares at it, he swears that a bud on the tree branch changes from green to pink. He scoops up a shirt and throws it on, still buttoning it as his bare feet hit the porch. He doesn’t feel the cold. 

“Look at you. Spring’s made you a new man. Up and about and looking better than you have in days,” Mike says next to him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d even say your hair doesn’t look nearly as grey. Good to see you up and about.”

In the distance, he sees a flash of color along the tree line. His scalp and his back itch-- spring time and new growth waiting just under his skin. He steps off the porch and begins to run for the tree line.

_If you go into the woods, the woods will go into you._

 


End file.
